


Singular

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Headaches & Migraines, Literal Sleeping Together, Living Together, M/M, Medicine, No Plot/Plotless, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Shizuo scoffs. 'I’m not sick,' he says, swinging his hand to push aside Izaya’s touch as the other reaches out for his shoulder. 'Just because you catch a cold every time you go out in the rain doesn’t mean that’s a problem for everyone else. I haven’t been sick since elementary school.'" Shizuo comes home with a headache and Izaya offers an unwanted diagnosis and much more welcome treatment.





	

The headache starts while Shizuo is still at work.

It takes him a while to realize that’s what it is. It begins as irritability, a vague sense of discomfort that just increases with every passing minute; when he recognizes the pressure for the dull ache it is, it’s grown to a level that he can feel throb against his temples with every heartbeat. The last half hour of work passes in a blur; by the time he’s making his way home the headache has gotten so bad the whole world feels distant and hazy, like he’s watching a movie instead of interacting with his own life. Voices feel far away, sounds seem to bear down on him like physical blows his body is suddenly incapable of handling; the trip back to the apartment seems to take twice as long as it usually does, until when he finally comes through the front door he’s surprised to find it unlocked, surprised that Izaya hasn’t yet left for whatever it is Izaya does in the evenings.

“Welcome back,” a voice calls from down the length of the hallway. “You’re late, Shizu-chan.”

“I’m home,” Shizuo offers back in belated response. He tries to toe his shoes off as usual but the coordination the task requires fails him; he steps on the cuff of his pant leg twice, kicks himself hard in the back of the ankle once, and finally has to reach out and brace himself against the wall before he can work through the motion slowly enough to achieve success.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Izaya wants to know. Shizuo can hear the sound of the other’s footsteps coming towards the entryway, a tell for his approach as clear as the rapid increase in the volume of his voice. “It’s almost an hour later than usual, I was thinking about sending out a missing person report to see if you had gotten lost on your way home.” He steps around the corner and into sight, shaking dark hair back from his face as he pads across the floor on bare feet; his mouth is catching on a grin, his shirt slipping wide over his shoulder. “Maybe I should microchip you like a dog, that way if someone picks you up they’ll known who to call to take responsibility for you.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says without really listening to what Izaya’s saying. He’s still holding onto the wall, even though both his shoes are off now; he’s not completely sure he trusts himself enough to let the support go. “Maybe.”

Izaya’s mouth goes soft, his grin flickering and fading as he stares at Shizuo. “‘Maybe’?” he repeats. “What the hell, Shizu-chan, are you drunk or something? That’s not something you’re supposed to _agree_ to.”

Shizuo frowns. “I’m not drunk,” he says, and lifts a hand to press hard against his aching head. “I have a headache.”

There’s complete silence for a moment, as if the whole world has paused to take a startled inhale. Then: “A _headache_?” sharp and bright with incredulity to layer over the sound of sudden footsteps. Fingers close around Shizuo’s wrist, a surprisingly gentle grip pulls his hand away from his forehead as Izaya’s touch ghosts across his hair. “Don’t be absurd, Shizu-chan, you never--” and Izaya’s words cut off in a hiss as the other snatches his palm back from Shizuo’s forehead. “ _Fuck_ , you’re burning up.”

Shizuo frowns harder. “I’m fine,” he says, twisting his hand to shake off Izaya’s hold at his wrist so he can reach up and ruffle his fingers through his hair. “You’re just cold, you’re _always_ \--”

“I’m not cold,” Izaya cuts him off, sharply enough that Shizuo’s words die to startled silence on his tongue. “You’re on _fire_. You’re sick, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo scoffs. “I’m not _sick_ ,” he says, swinging his hand to push aside Izaya’s touch as the other reaches out for his shoulder. “Just because you catch a cold every time you go out in the rain doesn’t mean that’s a problem for everyone else. I haven’t been sick since elementary school.”

“Then you’re overdue,” Izaya says. Shizuo rolls his eyes and moves to step away from the support of the wall -- and the world lurches, his balance teetering precariously as he tries to take a step forward. He hisses an inhale and reaches out to grab at the closest point of support, and his hand lands at Izaya’s shoulder, his grip tightening against the other’s shirt as Izaya’s arm comes out to catch around his waist. Shizuo ends up tipped in hard against the support of Izaya against him, his fingers digging into what must be bruise-hard pressure against the other’s shoulder to steady himself; but Izaya neither flinches nor hisses protest, just tightens his arm around Shizuo’s waist as if he thinks he can actually support the whole of the other’s weight himself. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m _not sick_ ,” Shizuo protests. “I told you, it’s just a headache.”

“Shut up,” Izaya tells him, his tone sharp and clear enough that Shizuo’s thoughts stall out against the edges of it as if they’ve hit a physical wall. “You’re going to lie down and you’re not going to get up again until I say so.”

“Who’s going to make me?”

“I will,” Izaya says immediately. “You’re free to protest as soon as you can stand up on your own volition.”

Shizuo turns his head to glare at Izaya; but Izaya just stares right back, his gaze steady and his mouth fixed on determination like Shizuo can’t remember ever seeing it before. He looks like he’s ready to start a fight, like if Shizuo pushes any farther he’s likely to meet the edge of a blade to add strength to Izaya’s words; and besides, if Shizuo thinks about it he’s not sure he trusts his balance enough to loosen his hold on Izaya’s shoulder in any case. He makes a face instead, scowling himself into frustrated submission as he looks away and lets his arm slide around Izaya’s shoulders to lean against the support of the other’s body. “Fine. Lead on.”

Izaya does. He’s lighter on his feet than Shizuo expected him to be while bearing most of the other’s weight across his shoulders; Shizuo tries to keep himself moving forward, but every time he achieves a step under his own power he’s promptly rewarded with a rush of dizziness and a hazy spin of the world around him, and by the time they’ve made it clear of the hallway and across the living room he’s stopped even trying to take control back himself. Izaya seems to be handling things just fine, for once, or at least well enough to land Shizuo on the soft of the couch with the support of the cushions to catch him even when the rest of the world is continuing to twist off-balance every time he blinks.

“Stay right there,” Izaya informs Shizuo, sliding his arm free so he can get to his feet and fix the other with a steady stare from the advantage of height standing grants him. “If I have to tie you down to keep you from wandering into walls I will.”

Shizuo snorts. “You couldn’t tie strong enough knots.”

“I never said it would be rope.” Izaya steps towards the kitchen but his gaze is still on Shizuo, his attention still focused and dark. “Just give me an excuse for the chains, I’d be happy to take the opportunity.”

Shizuo’s not completely sure how serious Izaya is about this threat, but it doesn’t make a difference to his response in the end anyway. “Fine,” he says, letting himself fall sideways over the soft of the couch cushions under him. The world lurches to follow his motion, the whole of gravity veers sharply for a moment, but as long as he’s horizontal Shizuo can let the dizziness wash over him without more than observing its presence. He shuts his eyes to let the darkness soothe his aching head for a moment. “I’ll stay here.”

“You had better,” Izaya tells him. There’s a strange note under his voice, a strain Shizuo’s not used to hearing, and it’s followed immediately by the ghosting touch of fingertips against Shizuo’s forehead as Izaya reaches out to push his hair up off his brow and weight his fingers to Shizuo’s skin; but the contact is only momentary, there and gone while Shizuo is still hissing an inhale, and by the time he’s opening his eyes to look up Izaya has already pulled back and is moving away in the direction of the kitchen without further comment. Shizuo lifts his own hand to press against the radiant heat of his forehead, feeling the lingering effect of Izaya’s touch like a cool compress against burning skin; and then he lets his arm fall over his head, and reaches up for the clip at his tie, and sets about the slow process of getting more comfortable.

It takes a while. Shizuo’s sense of time is distorted, he thinks; either that or it really does take him five minutes to slide the dark of his bowtie free of his collar, and another fifteen to work down the buttons on his vest before he begins the process of pulling his arms free of the sleeves. That’s a process in and of itself, involving more motion than his aching head wants anything to do with, and by the time he’s done he lacks the motivation for anything more careful than shoving tie and vest together over the edge of the couch to the floor. He ought to fold the vest at least, he thinks, and probably should move the tie to the edge of a table to keep it out of harm’s way; but the thought of moving is a distant one, like the framework of a dream instead of a sincere consideration, and the weight of his arm over the edge of the couch is like an anchor pulling him down to stillness. He stays where he is instead, sprawled across the couch cushions in some vague approximation of comfort, and if he doesn’t fall asleep properly he definitely dozes, drifting through the hazy inattention of exhaustion coupled with too much pain to allow him to fall into more sincere restfulness.

“Shizu-chan.” The familiar voice is clear, the syllables distinct even with the lack of the razor edge that usually comes with that nickname; Shizuo stirs, blinking hard to bring himself back into focus on the present moment instead of whatever extended daydream he had slipped into. He’s half on his stomach over the couch, he realizes when he shifts, his arm hanging over the side and his fingers curled idly around the slick smooth of his discarded vest; he shifts back, rolling onto his side as he lifts his hand to push through the weight of his hair, and Izaya comes into view with the smooth curve of a bowl cupped between both hands. There’s steam rising off the surface, curling damp into the air and flushing Izaya’s pale cheeks to a hint of color; as Izaya kneels to set the bowl against the edge of the coffee table Shizuo can see that it’s soup, the liquid filling the bowl to within an inch of the lip and requiring some care in Izaya’s movements.

Shizuo blinks. “Where did that come from?”

Izaya gives him a flat look. “I made it,” he informs Shizuo. “You must be on the brink of death if you can’t make that logical leap yourself.”

“Oh.” Shizuo tries to put together the pieces of this statement into some kind of order that makes sense. “From scratch?”

“Yes.” Izaya looks away from Shizuo and to the bowl as he reaches for the spoon in the liquid and stirs carefully; there’s the shift of noodles, the bright color of carrots, a suggestion of what might be chicken. “It’s a good thing we went grocery shopping yesterday, or I would have had to go out and leave you languishing alone.”

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Shizuo admits.

“Of course I can cook.” Izaya catches a spoonful of broth and blows carefully across the top of it; the steam uncurls through the air like smoke, an extra touch of humidity to warm the inside of the apartment. “I did used to take care of myself before you moved in, you know.” He picks up the bowl in one hand, still keeping the spoon in the other clear of the steaming surface, and turns back carefully towards Shizuo still lying across the couch. “Good thing too, or you would starve as soon as you came down with something.”

“I’m _not sick_ ,” Shizuo says. “It’s just a headache, you’re making too much of it.”

“You are,” Izaya says, his voice precisely as level as his expression. “You are sick, and if you keep insisting you’re not I’ll spoonfeed you like a child.”

Shizuo scowls at him. “As if you could.”

Izaya’s eyebrows go up. “As if you could stop me,” he says, and offers the spoon with all the threat of a knifeedge behind it. “What’s it to be, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo’s _not_ sick. He knows he’s not sick. The headache is unusual, sure, but the dizziness could easily come from the press of pain against his forehead, and the strange distance the world has taken on is surely a side effect rather than a separate symptom. It’s not like he’s sneezing or congested, after all, and isn’t that the primary indicator of the colds Shizuo’s never been victim to? But Izaya is watching him with his jaw set and gaze level, and sure though Shizuo is the ache at his temples argues against letting things come to a match of strength, because for the first time Shizuo’s not completely sure he wouldn’t end up sipping soup from a spoon braced in Izaya’s fingers rather than his own.

“Whatever,” he groans, and pushes against the support of the couch under him to force himself back to upright. Izaya draws the spoon back a little ways, keeping his attention on Shizuo as he watches the other move to sit up, but he doesn’t rise from where he’s kneeling alongside the furniture, and his gaze is still far more knowing than it has any right to be. Shizuo sits up on his own power, after all, and reaches for the bowl with his own strength, and if the weight of it wobbles a moment before he can steady it, well, that’s to be expected in handing off a nearly-full bowl. Izaya keeps his hand against the ceramic, bracing it to steadiness until Shizuo has a firm grip on it, and it’s only then than Shizuo gestures for the spoon in Izaya’s other hand. “Give that to me.”

“In a minute,” Izaya says. “Say _ah_.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo growls. “I’m not arguing with you, you said you’d let me at least feed myself.”

“Technically I said I _would_ feed you if you _did_ argue,” Izaya tells him. “I said nothing at all about if you _didn’t_.” Shizuo’s eyes narrow, his throat goes dark with a wordless rumble of frustration, and Izaya’s mouth quirks up at one corner to draw into a sharp grin. “But I’m a kind-hearted person. One bite and I’ll let you have it.”

“You’re the worst,” Shizuo says. “I hate you.”

“I know,” Izaya says, as calmly as if he’s responding to affection rather than insult. “Open up, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo glares, irritation setting itself tense against the line of his jaw; but Izaya just keeps watching him, his expression as steady as if he intends to wait all day, and finally Shizuo huffs a sigh of resignation, and rolls his eyes, and opens his mouth as indicated. Izaya reaches out to set his fingertips against Shizuo’s jawline, his touch bracing at the other’s skin as if to steady them both, and then he fits the spoon past Shizuo’s open lips, waiting until Shizuo closes his mouth around it to tip it up and let the liquid spill over the other’s tongue. It’s warm but not hot, the burn of the temperature soothed away by Izaya’s previous care, and the broth is rich, buttery and smooth and heavy with what must indeed be chicken, to taste so good on Shizuo’s tongue. Izaya draws the spoon free and offers it handle-first to Shizuo; Shizuo reaches out to close his fingers around the metal as he swallows. Izaya’s fingertips are still cool against his cheek.

“It’s good,” Shizuo says without thinking, shock winning the edge over whatever denial he might have otherwise tried to offer.

Izaya’s smile curves across his mouth, softening the sharp edge of his lips and brightening his eyes to warmth as he lets his hold on the spoon go. “I know,” he says, his fingers sliding over Shizuo’s skin and his palm pressing against the other’s cheek for a moment; and then he draws his hand away, and turns to move back down the hallway with careless grace. “Eat up, Shizu-chan. I’ll bring you some medicine.”

“I’m not sick,” Shizuo growls to Izaya’s retreating back, but he keeps his voice low so the sound won’t carry, and he’s turning his attention back to the soup before Izaya is out of sight. It _is_ good, he wasn’t kidding about that; the broth is good all on its own, and the chunks of carrot and shredded chicken just add variation to what would be worth eating even by itself. Shizuo’s focus narrows down to the bowl in front of him, and the exercise in patience of cooling each spoonful before eating it; by the time Izaya’s footsteps announce the other’s return he’s succeeded in consuming most of the bowl while also scalding his tongue a handful of times on a too-hasty mouthful.

“I brought you some pain relievers,” Izaya announces as Shizuo looks up to see the other’s approach with a pair of bottles in his hand. “And a fever reducer, which you’re going to take no matter what you say.” He offers one bottle to Shizuo -- the pain relievers, Shizuo sees as he sets down the nearly-empty soup bowl -- while shaking the other via a few quick twists of his wrist. “Take two of those.”

“I can take aspirin on my own,” Shizuo informs him, popping the lid off the bottle one-handed and shaking a pair of pills out into his hand. He takes them at once, swallowing them quickly before the coating has a chance to dissolve on his tongue; the taste isn’t particularly pleasant even so, but it’s worth it for the promise of relief from the pounding ache at his temples. He recaps the bottle and sets it down on the table in easy reach in case he needs more; when he looks back up Izaya has the second bottle open too and is occupied in squinting at the markings along the side of the tiny measuring cup as he pours a crimson liquid into it. The medicine is thick, visibly slow in spilling from the lip of the bottle into the cup; Shizuo makes a face just at the thought of swallowing back the weight of it against his throat. “That looks _awful_.”

“So do you,” Izaya says as he straightens the bottle to upright again and lowers the nearly-full medicine cup from the focus he’s been giving it. “If you look as sick as you do even with your inhuman healing capabilities you must have caught something that would kill a normal mortal.” He sets the cap back on the bottle without moving to screw it back on before offering the medicine to Shizuo. “Let’s at least bring your temperature out of the teens before you start refusing treatment.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Shizuo tells him, but he reaches for the cup anyway, cradling the fragile plastic against his fingertips as Izaya looks back to the bottle to fit the cap back on more securely. The liquid inside the cup looks dreadful, thick and viscous and faintly pearlescent in the way of all the medicine Shizuo’s ever taken; he makes a face, scowling at it like that will change anything about it, and then brings it to his lips to down it as fast as he can in an attempt to override the flavor and texture with speed.

He gets it down, at least. Unfortunately that means that by the time he coughs the taste is already coating the whole of his tongue and the back of his throat, and there’s no way to rid himself of the bitter only made worse by the sugar-sweet artificiality of the flavor layered over it in an ineffective attempt to mask the unpleasantness.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shizuo coughs, holding the medicine cup out in front of him while he lifts his other hand to his mouth as if to undo the taste. “That’s _disgusting_.”

“I don’t care how it tastes,” Izaya declares, his fingertips catching at Shizuo’s to pull the cup away to safety. “If it does what it’s meant to it can taste like poison for all I care.”

“Easy for you to say when you’re not the one taking it.” Izaya huffs a laugh of what might be acknowledgment and moves back towards the kitchen to rinse the cup out; Shizuo is left to sit at the couch, trying to work the taste of the medicine free of his mouth and only succeeding in spreading it farther. There’s still a few bites left of his soup; but he suspects the bitter flavor will persist far better than the rich undertones of the soup, and he doesn’t really want to lose the far more pleasant taste of the food to the pervasive bite of the medication. Still, it’s his best option under the circumstances, with the pressure at his temples still knocking him too dizzy to trust his footing in finding something better, and he’s nearly made up his mind to try it anyway when something cold bumps against his forehead. He startles at the pressure, twisting to look up at Izaya standing over him with the condensation-chill of a glass bottle caught between his fingers.

“Here.” Izaya pushes the glass back against Shizuo’s forehead, maintaining the startling difference in temperature until Shizuo reaches up to drag the object free of the other’s hold. It’s a bottle of milk, he sees as soon as he has it far enough away to see clearly, the usual white tinged to pink by the promise of strawberry flavor. “For the taste.”

“Oh,” Shizuo says. “Thanks.”

“No need,” Izaya tells him, coming around the far side of the table so he can settle onto the other end of the couch. “It’s your milk anyway, it’s not like I was going to drink it.” He looks sideways at Shizuo through the fall of his hair, his gaze clinging to the other as Shizuo pulls the lid off the bottle and brings it to his lips. The liquid is cool from the fridge, Shizuo can feel the relief of the sweet taste spreading over his tongue and down his throat as soon as he takes his first sip; he keeps drinking, letting the familiar flavor wash away the bitter of the medicine and leave rich sweetness in its wake. By the time he pulls the bottle away to gasp an inhale of relief he’s finished more than half of the liquid inside.

“Better?” Izaya asks.

Shizuo nods. “Yeah,” he says, and lifts the bottle again to finish the last of it with another long swallow. When he sets the empty bottle down against the table he can’t taste the medicine on his tongue at all, and he doesn’t hesitate in reaching out to retrieve the bowl and the last few spoonfuls of soup in it. It takes a very few minutes to finish off what’s left of the meal, and Izaya reaches out to take the bowl as soon as Shizuo lets the spoon rattle against the edge of the ceramic.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, collecting the empty milk bottle in his other hand as he gets up to return to the kitchen, and Shizuo lets himself lean back against the support of the couch, lets the cushions behind him take his weight as he tips his head back and relaxes into the comfort. His eyelids feel heavy, like they’re trying to pull themselves shut in spite of his best attempts to keep them open, and when they drift closed it’s almost on accident more than a conscious decision. Shizuo’s thoughts are wandering, skipping from topic to topic in the span between heartbeats, his mind drifting lazily between ideas without any need for close attention. He feels very warm, hazy and heavy all through his limbs; and then Izaya’s voice says “Are you falling asleep?” and Shizuo blinks his eyes open just as Izaya steps around the table to sit on the couch next to him again.

“No,” Shizuo says, fighting to keep his eyes open against the weight pulling them down. It takes far more effort than it reasonably should. “No, I’m awake still.”

“I didn’t ask if you were awake,” Izaya tells him. He’s smiling when Shizuo turns to look at him, his mouth tugging tight at the corner and his eyes bright with amusement. “You look like you’re about to pass out where you sit.”

Shizuo opens his mouth to respond -- with protest, probably, or at least that’s his intention -- before he gets caught mid-speech by an enormous yawn. It interrupts his train of thought as much as his voice, and by the time it passes all he can muster in his head is vague agreement. “I guess I am pretty tired.”

“You look it.” Izaya reaches out to touch his fingers to Shizuo’s shoulder, a glancing pressure against the other’s shirt like he’s finding his way before his touch skips up to the back of Shizuo’s neck instead. “Do you want to lie down?”

“Yeah,” Shizuo admits, and he’s tipping as fast as he speaks, surrendering to the gentle slide of Izaya’s touch as entirely as he does to the other’s suggestion. Izaya huffs something soft and amused, but Shizuo doesn’t see his expression; his eyes are already shutting, his whole body aching with relief at his capitulation as he topples sideways and against the support of Izaya’s shoulder.

“You know, there’s a reason we have a _bed_ ,” Izaya tells him, but Shizuo can hear the curve of the other’s smile audible on the words, and when Izaya shifts it’s to adjust himself better against the support of the couch rather than to push Shizuo off him. His fingers brace at Shizuo’s shoulder, urging the other to turn against the couch, and Shizuo obeys, shifting one arm up to drape heavy around Izaya’s waist as his head presses to the other’s chest. Izaya tips back, wiggling himself into a more comfortable angle; Shizuo’s shoulder fits close against the warmth of Izaya’s hip, his fingers settle in at the dip of the other’s spine, and Izaya’s hand slides up to trail through his hair, the weight of the other’s touch gentle as if in consideration of the dull headache fading to distance with the assistance of the pain relievers. Shizuo can hear Izaya’s heart beating under his head, a steady rhythm like a lullaby for the dizzy haze of his thoughts; he shifts sideways by an inch and settles himself in close against the sound that is far more comforting than the simple warmth of their bed would be.

Izaya’s fingers drag through his hair, Izaya’s thumb slips behind Shizuo’s ear to trail a path of warmth down the line of the other’s neck. “Comfortable, Shizu-chan?”

“Mm,” Shizuo hums, the incoherent sound answer enough in itself to the question; but there’s something else he has to say too, something to undo his mistaken claim earlier. He frowns against Izaya’s shirt without opening his eyes, struggling to find the shape of his brief thought; and then he realizes, and sighs relief even as he speaks. “I guess I really _am_ sick.”

Izaya huffs a laugh over him, the sound soft and as gentle as the draw of his fingertips over Shizuo’s neck. “Of course you are,” he says, his touch ghosting carefully over fever-achy skin. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of you.”

If Shizuo were less tired he might be more surprised by this; if he were more alert he thinks Izaya might not have said it at all. But he’s exhausted, and more than half-asleep, and the only coherent reaction he can muster to the claim is a distant ache in his chest, like his heart is trying to swell and break free of his ribcage all on its own.

“Okay,” he says, mumbling the word against Izaya’s shirt, and lets his consciousness drift away, lulled to dreams by the sound of Izaya’s heartbeat.


End file.
